Fallout
by sherazard
Summary: [GS implied][Character Death] And she had been tempted, so tempted to just slap him across the face and scream that it was his fault, all his fault and he had no right no right to hate her and hurt her like this.


_And I've been secretly falling apart..._

She could taste the rain; the faint smell of ozone and the post-rainfall dampness curling her hair. She wondered if it would contaminate the scene; the amount wasn't substantial for a robbery of this size, but it was still more than enough to get a good, solid lead. Or so she hoped.

It was the rain that drew her here, to a place that her memories didn't taint, couldn't tarnish. The coppery tang of blood in her mouth and feeling the oppressive pressure of being ostracized, of standing out when all she wanted was to blend in with the crowd, be lost in the monotony. But something in her wouldn't let her do that, she would always stand out, always be a cut above the rest. And while she held a perverse sense of pride in it, she couldn't help but wish she was normal.

But what was normal, really?

Though she knew that the real reason for being here wasn't just because she could see cast-off on the walls of every house she entered and the sight of a ghost standing tall and proud, glorified and victorious over its kill. It was rather the shadow of a man that lay motionless on the floor that made her run, made her scream in technicolor and surround sound in her beautiful nightmares. Dreams were frivolous and based in fantasies (oh god gil oh fuck); her nightmares were from memory, they were real and she knew, she knew that they were real, would always be real (its okay sara baby its okay i don't know what to do about this).

She missed the desert. The emptiness, its ability to mete out death to the poor, unprepared fool, its ability to engulf lives in silence and squirrel it away until another poor miscreant stumbled upon its secret, she missed it. She envied it; she wished she was like the desert, able to exist in silence and mystery.

But here, here she didn't cry at night, didn't feel that heavy weight of loneliness and longing for a man who was like a desert, only he was encased in ice and darkness. A frozen tundra that ensured destruction, (since i met you) pain and a certain death to all but a precious, select few. Of which she was not, though God knew she had tried. Tried damn hard and failed utterly, miserably.

Failure stung.

Would he remember her, would he say her name in that low, gravelly tone that sent shivers up her spine? Would his eyes flicker, however briefly, behind the translucent diamond curtain of his eyes? Would he smile that sensual half smile that spiked estrogen levels all over the lab? Would his beard still be that delicious dichotomy of sandpaper and velvet?

She hoped so.

But why was it that everytime she closed her eyes, she dreamt of him, encased in black and red, cast-off on the walls (daddy wake up), overshadowed by a figure almost familiar (mommy? why mommy?), spattered in the same red? She classified it as a dream, because it had never happened. Her last memory of him was standing in the airport, offering her a broken smile full of resentment and wishing her the best of luck. And she had been tempted, so tempted to just slap him across the face and scream that it was his fault, all his fault and he had no right; no right to hate her and hurt her like this. He dug his grave, she told herself bitterly, he dug his grave so he should lie in it. (emotionally unavailable inappropriate validation we go to movies you were always more than just a boss to me why do you think i came to vegas)

Though she did wonder from time to time who really dug that grave in which he slumbered in.

She stared into the face of this man, a face nearly blown apart by a bullet, but a face nonetheless. The barest remains of a blue-eyed, fifty-maybe sixty-year old man lay in front of her and she wondered if this was Fate's way of twisting that knife in her heart a little more. The coroner-medical examiner was prattling on about John Doe #23 (a large caliber bullet entered under the left orbital bone, through and through at close range god his face is just gone cause of death is a gunshot wound to the face defensive wounds on his hands no id) but all she could see was shadows and red.

Everything was spinning, she could hear voices (sidle sidle sara someone get help she just collapsed hurry the fuck up) and she could taste blood in her mouth, and damn if it didn't taste like him. When she got home tonight, she would turn off that damn little light that blinked on her desk. It was probably a telemarketer anyway; who would call her? Certainly not him, anyway. It would only take a second to hit the 'Erase' button anyway; why didn't life have a button like that?

(sara can you hear me sara where the hell are the paramedics tell them to hurry up goddamit)

Shadows and red all around her, over her, in her. Darkness.

_"This is Sara. I can't come to the phone right now; please leave a message after the beep."_

_"Hey Sara, uh, it's Greg. Um, I don't know how to say this, but since we, that's me and Nick, haven't heard from you in months, and I know I, we should have called earlier and said something, but um, there's been an accident. I'm sorry Sara. We didn't get him there on time. Uh, God this is hard, shit, um, he uh, he left you some stuff so I thought you'd like to, to uh... maybesomedaycomepickitup... yeah. You know my number. Call me back, okay? And I'm...I'm really sorry Sara. And so's Nick and Warrick and everyone else. He really did l--"_


End file.
